Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whiles, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice; till now myself and such As slept with our traversed arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush, When crouching marrow in the bearer strong Cries of itself, “No more.” William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

But tell me true — For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure — Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

What an alteration of honour Has desperate want made! What viler thing upon the earth than friends Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends! How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, When man was wish’d to love his enemies! William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)